"And so did he—in the newspapers. For a reason of his own he let the world think that he had perished in a hotel-fire."
At this statement Ivar's agitation became extreme. The cigarette dropped from his fingers; his face became livid.
"Why should his being alive trouble you?" asked Lorelie, looking in wonder at her husband.
For some moments Ivar hesitated, and when at last his answer came, Lorelie intuitively felt that he was not stating the true cause of his disquietude.
"You would marry that fellow to Beatrice?" he said, moistening his dry white lips. "Why he is the son of a—a—felon: his father was tried for murder at Nantes, and found guilty."
"Have you made a point of studying the bygone criminal trials of France? If not, how have you learned this?"
"I heard the story from—from my father," replied Ivar slowly, as if reluctant to make the admission.
At this Lorelie gave a very palpable start. A curious light came into her eyes. She seemed as if struck by some new and surprising idea.
"And how cameheto learn it?"
"He was in Brittany at the time of the trial, and could not avoid hearing all about it. The crime created, as newspapers say, a great sensation. For weeks the people of Nantes talked of little else."
"Your father's ten years' absence from Ravenhall was spent in Brittany, then?"
"A portion of the time," replied Ivar, evidently uneasy under his wife's catechism.
"And so this murder-trial," observed Lorelie, with a thoughtful air, "this trial which took place so far back as twenty-seven years ago—that is before you and I were born—has formed a topic of conversation between yourself and your father. What necessity led him to talk of the matter to you?"
But Ivar waived this question by asking one.
"What has brought that fellow to Ormsby?" he said, nodding his head in the direction of Idris.
"He is trying to discover his father; for he believes, rightly or wrongly, that Eric Marville is still alive. He has traced him to this neighbourhood," she added, her eyes attentive to every variation in Ivar's countenance.
"And here he may end his quest," said the viscount, "for Eric Marville was shipwrecked off this coast and drowned many years ago. At least, that is my father's statement," he added in some confusion, and looking like a man who has been unwittingly betrayed into a rash statement.
"What was the name of the vessel in which EricMarville went down?" asked Lorelie, speaking as if she had never before heard of it.
"The—The Idris," returned the viscount, giving the name with obvious reluctance.
There was on Lorelie's face a smile that somehow made Ivar feel as if he had walked into a net prepared for him.
"And how long ago is it since this vessel was wrecked?"
"Twenty-two years ago."
"Twenty-two years ago," murmured Lorelie, with the air of one making a mental calculation, "will take us back to 1876."
"October the thirteenth, 1876, if you wish for the exact date."
"And was it not on this same night of October the thirteenth, 1876, that your father the earl walked into Ravenhall after a mysterious absence of ten years?"
"What of that?"
"O nothing! Mere coincidence, of course. And so," continued Lorelie, with a retrospective air, "and so the foundering of the yachtIdrisis another of the little matters about which your father has conversed with you. Strange that a peer of the realm should take such interest in the fate of an escaped felon!" She paused, as if expecting Ivar to make some reply, but he did not speak. "Well," she went on, "I will make the confession that I, too, take an interest—a strong interest—in this Eric Marville; nay, I will go so far as to say that to discover what ultimately became of him is one of the objects that has led me to Ormsby. And in pursuance of this object I have had the good fortune to obtain from its present editor a copy ofThe Ormsby Weekly Times, dated October 20th, 1876, in which paper there is given an account both of the foundering of the yacht and also ofthe inquest upon the bodies that were washed ashore. Now, as the coroner was unable to ascertain either the name of the vessel, or the names of any of the men aboard, is it not a little curious that the earl should know that the yacht was calledIdris, and that it carried on board one Eric Marville? How comes your father to know more than could be elicited in the coroner's court?"
"Egad, you'd better ask him," returned Ivar sullenly.
"Well, I must controvert your father on one point. Eric Marville wasnotdrowned. I have proof that he was on shore at the time the yacht sank."
The viscount was obviously startled by this statement.
"Oh! then what became of him?"
"Have I not said that I am trying to find out?"
"You've got a difficult task before you. No one has heard of him since the night of the wreck."
"No one has heard of him by the name Marville, of course. He would not be likely to adhere to a name that would suggest reminiscences of the felon from Valàgenêt. He perhaps resumed his old family name."
"His old family name," repeated Ivar. "What is your reason for supposing that Marville was not his true name?"
"Because it does not appear among the list of names in the peerage."
"The peerage?"
"Do you not know that Marville claimed to be a peer of the realm?"
The viscount smiled, but it was obvious that he was ill at ease.
"Felon in Brittany; peer in Britain. A likely story that! Odd that the detectives and journalists did not discover the fact at the time of his trial."
"It is odd, as you say, Ivar. He certainly kept hissecret well. I do not think he revealed it even to his wife."
"Which proves his lack of a coronet. It is not likely that he would conceal from his wife the fact that he was heir to a peerage."
"He doubtless had his reasons. Having perhaps quarrelled with his family he may have left England forever, determined to begin life anew in another land, and to hide his identity under an assumed name. An imperial archduke of Austria has done the like in our time, and so successfully, too, as to baffle all endeavours to trace him."
"And, pray, to what peerage did this Marville lay claim?"
"I do not know."
"Dormant, orin esse?"
"I do not know."
"What was its rank? A baronage: a viscountship: a——"
"I do not know."
Ivar seemed rather pleased than otherwise with Lorelie's want of knowledge.
"Where, when, and under what circumstances, then, did Eric Marville claim to be a peer?"
"So far as I am aware he referred to it but once, and then to no more than one person, a French military officer, now dead. 'I am heir to a peerage and could take my rank to-morrow, if I chose,' were his words."
"And that's all the evidence you have?"
"All the evidence I have, Ivar."
"Marville was boasting, beyond a doubt. Does that fellow," he continued, glancing at Idris' distant figure, "know of his father's claim to a peerage?"
"He has not the least inkling of it."
"You'll act wisely by keeping the notion out of his pate."
"Why so?"
"It's one thing to claim a peerage, but quite another thing to prove one's claim. Why fill the fellow with false hopes? Be guided by me, and refrain from telling him of his father's pretensions."
"Very well, Ivar," responded Lorelie, quietly, "I will be guided by you. As your wife it is my duty to do nothing to the detriment of your future interests."
For a moment the two stared curiously at each other.
"My interests?" muttered the viscount. "I don't understand you."
"I think you do," she said gravely. "But," she added, rising to her feet, "I am neglecting my visitors," and so saying she moved off in the direction of Idris and Beatrice, who were slowly pacing to and fro on one side of the lawn.
"Not even the coronet to console me now!" she murmured darkly. "A fitting punishment this for my long and guilty silence! Justice, justice, now thy scourge is coming upon me!"
Ivar did not follow his wife, but sat motionless for some moments, staring after her in blank dismay, and completely confounded by the startling hints that she had let fall.
"Idris Marville not dead," he muttered, removing with his handkerchief the cold moisture that glistened on his forehead. "That fellow he! Living here at Ormsby—in the same house with Beatrice! And Lorelie suspects! Suspects? Sheknows. By God! supposing she tells him! But, bah! she will not—she dare not—declare it; she stands to lose too much." He recalled her words to the effect that she would do nothing detrimental to his interests. The meaning of this assurance was obvious, and Ivar breathed more freely. "She'll keep the secret for her own sake. She'll not be so mad as to cut her ownthroat. In marrying her I've stopped her mouth. But if she had known as much a year ago as she knows to-day——!"
The smile had returned to Lorelie's lips by the time she reached Idris and Beatrice, and at her invitation they repaired to the drawing-room. Lord Walden, with a black feeling of hatred in his heart against both his wife and Idris, slowly followed without speaking, and flung himself on a distant ottoman as if desiring no companionship but his own.
Idris, thus ignored by the viscount, could but ignore him in turn. He had never beheld a more sullen and a more ungracious clown than Lorelie's husband, and he much regretted that he had not followed his first impulse to depart.
The drawing-room was a handsome apartment, containing many evidences of taste and wealth. Lorelie took a pride in pointing out her treasures.
"My father," she remarked, observing Beatrice's eyes set upon a portrait in oils representing a handsome man in the uniform of a French military officer.
Idris viewed with interest the likeness of the man who for about the space of a minute had flashed across his childhood's days.
"A man who will ever command my respect," he murmured, "since in rescuing my father from prison he was forced by that act to become an exile from his native land."
An expression of pain passed over Lorelie's face.
"Mr. Breakspear, you do not know what you are saying."
"Forgive me. I promised never to allude to that event, and I am breaking my word. I apologize."
And he wondered, as he had often wondered, why reference to this matter should trouble her. She had nocause to be ashamed of her father's deed. Captain Rochefort's act in favour of a friend whom he believed to be innocent was, from Idris' point of view, a gallant and romantic enterprise, and in the judgment of most persons would deserve condonation, if not approval.
After the portrait of Captain Rochefort, what most interested Beatrice was an antique vase standing upon the carved mantel. It was of gold, set with precious stones, and the interior was concealed from view by a tight-fitting lid.
"What a pretty vase!" she said, and with Lorelie's sanction she lifted it from the mantel. As she did so a cold tremor passed over her. She placed the urn upon the table, and in a moment the feeling was gone. She took up the vase again, and the unpleasant sensation returned. Was this due to something exhaled from the interior of the urn? She drew a deep breath through her nostrils, but failed to detect any odour.
Puzzled and annoyed, Beatrice became morbidly curious to learn its contents.
"The lid fits very tightly," she said, addressing Lorelie. "How do you remove it?"
"It is secured by a hidden spring," replied the viscountess. "If you can discover the secret, you will be doing me a favour, for I have never been able to open it myself."
"Then you do not know what treasure it may contain," smiled Beatrice. "Attar of roses, spices from Arabia, pearls from the Orient, may lurk within." She shook the urn, and a faint sound accompanied the movement. "Listen! there is certainly something inside."
"I am full of curiosity myself to know what it is," said Lorelie, "I have spent hours in trying to discover the spring."
"Then it is useless for me to try."
But though Beatrice spoke thus, she nevertheless made the attempt, toying with the vase and pressing various figures sculptured upon the sides. All to no purpose. The jewels sparkled like wicked eyes, seeming to mock her endeavours. The sound caused by the shaking of the urn was like the collision of paper pellets, shavings of wood, or of some other substance equally light. And all the time while handling the vase Beatrice was conscious of a strange feeling of repulsion. What caused it she could not tell: the fact was certain: the reason inexplicable.
"Is this vase an heirloom?" she asked, desirous of learning whence Lorelie had obtained it, and yet not liking to appear too curious.
The viscountess hesitated a moment, evidently adverse to replying, and then stooped over Beatrice and kissed her.
"Will you think me discourteous, Beatrice, if—if I do not tell you how I came by it?"
While speaking she glanced aside at Ivar who, from his position on the couch, was watching the scene with so perturbed an air that Idris was led to believe there was some strange secret connected with this vase—a secret known to both husband and wife. Great as was his love for Lorelie, Idris was compelled to admit that she was very mysterious in some of her ways.
Then a strange thing happened.
Idris, keenly attentive to all that was passing, observed a curious expression stealing over Beatrice's face. Once before he had seen this expression, namely, at the time when she gave her opinion on the piece of steel taken from the Viking's skull. The pupils of her eyes were contracted, and set with a bright fixity of gaze upon the jewelled urn. The rigidity of her figure indicated a cataleptic state.
Her lips parted, and in a voice strangely unlike her own, she said:—
"The ashes of the dead!"
At this Lorelie gave a faint cry and drew away the vase, glancing again at Ivar. Then, with her hands she closed the eyes of Beatrice, and shook her gently. Beatrice opened her eyes again, and looked around with the surprised air of one aroused suddenly from sleep.
"Do you know what you have been saying?" Lorelie asked.
"No—what?"
"That this is a funereal urn."
"Have I been self-hypnotized again?"
"Again?" repeated Lorelie. "Do you often fall into this state?"
"Occasionally—when gazing too long at some bright object: and then the object seems to whisper its history to me, or rather, as Godfrey more sensibly remarks, my mind begins to weave all kinds of fancies around it."
"Why, you must be a clairvoyante," said Lorelie, studying the other intently. "'The ashes of the dead?' Yes, this may be a crematory vase. What do you say, Ivar?" she added, turning to the viscount.
"Of course Beatrice knows," was his reply, "for is she not a daughter of the gods, a descendant of a Norse prophetess? But, Beatrice, I think that the blood of Hilda the Alruna must have become so diluted during the course of ten centuries that your claim to the hereditary gift of intuition is a little laughable."
"I am not aware of having made any such claim," replied Beatrice, quietly.
"And such claim, if made, would be justified," retorted Idris, roused by Lord Walden's sneering air, "for Miss Ravengar has given me previous proof of possessing remarkable intuitive powers."
"Let us say no more on the matter," said Lorelie, gently.
She restored the urn to its place on the mantelpiece, and, desirous of removing the somewhat unpleasant impression created by the incident, immediately started a conversation on other topics.
The talk turned presently upon literature, and Idris, remembering that Lorelie was an author, said:—
"Lady Walden, will you not give us a reading from your play?"
"O, yes, do!" cried Beatrice, impulsively.
Lorelie hesitated. The drama written by her had been a work of time and patience: it was as near perfection as she would ever be able to bring it: she had poured her noblest feelings into the work. But she knew that what seems good to the author often seems bad to the critic: that the thoughts, supposed to be original, prove to be merely echoes of what others have said before in far better language: that the line that separates eloquence from bombast is easily passable on the wrong side.
These were the motives disposing Lorelie to keep her tragedy to herself. The person who should have been the first to give encouragement on this occasion was mute; for Ivar maintained an air of indifference.
"Deserves kicking," was Idris' secret comment, as he became conscious of a suggestion of humiliation in Lorelie's manner, due to her husband's want of appreciation. "And," he added to himself, "I should very much like to do the kicking."
Moved at last by the solicitations of her two visitors Lorelie produced the manuscript of her play and prepared to read some portions of it.
"This drama of mine, 'The Fatal Skull'," she began, "derives its name from the central incident in it—an incident of early Italian history. Alboin, King of theLombards, had become enamoured of Rosamond, the beautiful daughter of Cunimund, King of the Gepids. Both father and daughter, however, rejected the suit, for Lombards and Gepids had long been at feud. Embassies having failed, Alboin resolved to attain his object by force, and, accordingly, entered the territories of Cunimund with an army. In the battle that followed, the Gepid king was slain, his forces put to the rout, and his daughter Rosamond became the prize and the reluctant bride of the conqueror Alboin."
"How dreadful," murmured Beatrice, "to be compelled to marry the man who had slain her father!"
"The sequel is more dreadful," returned Lorelie. "The death of Cunimund was not sufficient to satiate the hatred of Alboin; the skull of the fallen king, fashioned into a drinking cup, became the most treasured ornament of his sideboard.
"Feasting one day with his companions-in-arms, Alboin called for the skull of Cunimund. 'The cup of victory'—to quote the words of Gibbon—'was accepted with horrid applause by the circle of the Lombard chiefs. "Fill it again with wine," exclaimed the inhuman conqueror, "fill it to the brim; carry this goblet to the queen, and request in my name that she would rejoice with her father." In an agony of grief and rage, Rosamond had strength to utter, "Let the will of my lord be obeyed," and, touching it with her lips, pronounced a silent imprecation that the insult should be washed away in the blood of Alboin.'"
"And did she kill her husband?" asked Beatrice.
"Yes, with the help of his armour-bearer Helmichis."
Having thus set forth the argument, Lorelie, unfolding her manuscript, began to read certain scenes from her play. The reading of them was a revelation both to Idris and Beatrice: there was a masculine vigour in the lines:the thoughts were as noble as they were original, and graced by many poetic images and by passages of exquisite beauty.
Charmed by the melody of Lorelie's voice, charmed still more by the lovely face set in a frame of dark hair, Idris sat entranced, with something more than admiration in his eyes. And as Beatrice observed his rapt attitude, his accelerated breathing, she trembled uneasily; not for herself, but for Lorelie. In the near future, when the young viscountess should have come to learn the worthlessness of her husband, and to experience the misery of existence with him, would she have sufficient strength and purity of soul to resist the temptation of flying to the arms of Idris? Their meeting with each other was a foolish playing with fire, and could have but one ending. Beatrice ceased to listen to the reading of the play, and grew miserable with her own thoughts.
"Lady Walden," said Idris, when she had finished her recital, "your drama is a work of real genius."
His praise was sweeter to Lorelie than the praise of a thousand other critics, and her cheek flushed with triumph.
"You certainly ought to have it put upon the stage," he continued.
"Yes," chimed in Ivar: for evenhissullen nature had been moved to admiration: "you must not hide your light under a bushel. If one is a genius, let the world know it."
"If this play should ever be acted," said Lorelie, "then letmetake the chief part in it. Who more fit to play therôleof Rosamond than the creator of Rosamond?"
"Well, whenever you desire to begin rehearsals," said Idris, jocularly, "Miss Ravengar can supply you with one item of stage property in the shape of a real skull."
"But you would not drink from a real skull?" said Beatrice.
"It would add to the effect," smiled Lorelie.
"Drink from a real skull? Ah, how horrid!" exclaimed Beatrice.
In reciting the words of the wronged and indignant Queen, Lorelie had caught the genuine spirit of the character: and now, inspired by the idea of becoming its exponent upon the stage, she rose to her feet, her eyes sparkling as with the light of future triumph.
As she stood upon the hearth in statuesque pose, she seemed to be the very queen of tragedy, to be breathing, as it were, the air of vengeance; a spirit so contrary to her usual sweet self that Idris did not like to witness its assumption, however suitable it may have been to the character of the fierce Rosamond.
"I can see the eyes of the theatre riveted upon me," she murmured, picturing to herself the future representation of her drama, "as I enter the banqueting-hall of the Lombard chiefs, and advance to drink from the fatal cup! How the audience will thrill as they watch! How awful the silence as Rosamond places her lips to her father's skull!"
She illustrated her words by taking the antique vase from the mantel and going through the action of drinking from it, shuddering as she did so; though whether her shudder was mere simulation, or a real thing occasioned by the supposed nature of its contents was more than Idris could tell.
"And when the hour for vengeance came, I would rise to the height of the occasion, and strike down Alboin—so!"
Drawing from her hair a long and gleaming hairpin shaped like a stiletto, she went through the motion of stabbing an imaginary figure.
"'Die!'" she exclaimed, in an exultant tone, and quoting the words of her play. "'This Rosamond sends.'"
There was a weird roll of her glittering eyes as she flung out her left hand tightly clenched: a swiftness and ferocity in the downward stroke of the stiletto in her right, so suggestive of real murder that Idris glanced at her feet, almost expecting to see a human figure lying there.
Beatrice gave a cry of genuine terror. Ivar looked on with evident admiration.
For a few seconds Lorelie maintained a rigid bending pose, her eyes dilated with terror, staring at the hearth as if she beheld something there. Then, with a motion startling in its suddenness, she recovered her erect attitude, and reeled backward with her lifted hand clenched upon her brow. The stiletto dropped from her limp fingers, and the peculiar ringing sound produced by its contact with the tiled hearth was fresh in Idris' ears for many days afterwards.
"'A-a-ah!'" she cried in a long-drawn thrilling sibilant whisper, which, nevertheless, penetrated to every corner of the apartment, and again quoting from her play. "'Ah! He moves! His eyes open! That look of reproach! I dare not,'" she went on, gasping for breath, "'I dare not strike again! Helmichis, do thou strike for me.'"
With averted face she staggered back and dropped upon a couch, apparently exhausted by real or simulated emotion.
"Bravo! bravo!" cried Ivar, clapping his hands. "The divine Sarah couldn't do it better. By heaven! we ought to have this play staged, with you in therôleof Rosamond. You'd be the talk of London."
As for Idris, thediablerieof Lorelie's manner had given him a sensation very much akin to horror.
"What have I been witnessing?" he murmured. "A piece of acting merely, or a reminiscence of a real tragedy?"
Beatrice, deadly white, and with her eyes closed, lay back upon an ottoman silent and motionless.
"What do you say?" said Lorelie, coming quickly forward in response to a remark from Idris.
"I think Miss Ravengar has fainted," he repeated.
"Egad! Lorelie," said Ivar, amused. "There's a tribute to your acting, if you like."
Lady Walden instantly busied herself in applying restoratives to the swooning Beatrice.
"I am sorry to have frightened you," she said in gentle tones to Beatrice when the latter had recovered. "It was very absurd of me to act so."
But Lorelie's tenderness met with no response from Beatrice, whose eyes were full of a wild haunting horror. She shrank from Lorelie's touch; she avoided her glance; her whole manner showed that she was anxious for nothing so much as to get away from her presence.
"I—I think I'll go home now," she said, glancing at Idris. "Godfrey will be waiting for us. We promised to return early."
"The walk through the fresh air will do you good," remarked Idris, who was himself desirous of withdrawing.
It was in vain that Lorelie pressed her visitors to stay. Beatrice declared that she must go, and within the space of a few minutes she had taken a very abrupt leave of her hostess.
That night Idris' sleep was broken by troubled dreams, in all of which a woman's image mingled, always in the act of striking down some shadowy foe; but the venue was changed from the elegant apartment at The Cedars to the grey stone interior of Ormfell!
Next morning Idris strove to put aside the fear that had found expression in his dreams, but the dark idea would persist in forcing itself upon him. He grew angry with himself. Heavens! was he not master of his own mind that he could not throw off this suspicion of the woman whom he loved? Strange and mysterious Lorelie might be, but that she was a taker of human life he found it impossible to believe.
Doubtless it was true that a murder had taken place within Ormfell, but that the crime had been wrought by a stiletto hairpin was merely a conjecture on the part of Beatrice, who had no valid reason to offer in support of her theory: yet, imbued with this fancy she was persistent in maintaining that a woman must have been the author of the deed.
Assuming it, however, to be a fact that the piece of steel was a fragment of a hairpin, and the person who used it as an instrument of death a woman, it did not follow because Lorelie had drawn a stiletto pin from her hair in order to illustrate an assassination-scene in her play, that he must identify her with the guilty woman.
There was not only no evidence to connect Lorelie with the crime, but much to prove the contrary. For instance, it requires a very long period of time before a human body will become reduced to the state of a skeleton such as that which Idris and Godfrey had found in the interior of the ancient tumulus.
But Lorelie's coming to Ormsby had taken place lessthan five months ago. Therefore, unless the remains had been brought from elsewhere, she could have had no hand in the crime.
But had the remains been brought from elsewhere? and was Godfrey wrong in limiting the scene of the murder to the interior of Ormfell? With a sudden thrill of surprise and fear Idris recalled the reliquary brought to Ravenhall by Ivar on the night of his return from the continent. The story of the viscount's midnight visit to the vault had been told him in confidence by Godfrey, and Idris therefore knew that this mysterious visit had some connection with Lorelie's affairs. The meaning of it all had completely puzzled the two friends; but now, while pondering over Ivar's action, Idris felt a return of all his misgivings.
Oblivious of the flight of time he remained on his pillow occupied in gloomy thought, and when at last he did get up and go down-stairs, he found that he must breakfast alone, for Beatrice was absent, having left a message with the maid to the effect that she had gone to The Cedars.
The Cedars of all places! How came it that Beatrice, after having evinced such fear of Lorelie on the previous evening, should repair thither the next morning? Was it to tell Lorelie of her suspicions? to warn her that the crime was known? to put her on her guard?
Some such motive must have actuated her: so Idris, thinking that he could not do better than imitate her example, set off himself in the direction of The Cedars.
On his arrival he learned from the maid who opened the door that Beatrice was in the drawing-room with Lorelie.
"Let me see them, please."
Without ascertaining whether his presence would be acceptable to her mistress, the girl ushered him intothe drawing-room with the words, "Mr. Breakspear, ma'amzelle," and there left him.
Idris looked around. No one was visible, but from the other side of the curtains that draped one end of the room came the sound of voices. The maid in introducing him had pronounced his name so softly that apparently those behind the portière were unaware of his presence.
The two curtains forming the portière not being closely drawn left an opening, through which Idris, as he went forward, caught a glimpse of a small boudoir. Both Lorelie and Beatrice were there.
On the point of addressing them, he was suddenly stopped in his purpose by something odd in the appearance and attitude of each.
Beatrice occupied a position at a low table, upon which stood the vase that had attracted her curiosity on the previous day, the vase containing "the ashes of the dead."
She sat erect and silent, her hands resting on her lap, her face as rigid as if sculptured from marble: her attitude gave an impression that if pushed she would fall over like a dead weight. Her eyes were set upon the glittering vase with a curious far-off expression in them, as if observant of some scene a thousand miles away.
Facing her a few paces off, with her eyes concentrating all their brightness and force upon Beatrice's face, sat Lady Walden. It was clear at a glance that she held Beatrice's mind and will completely under her own control.
"As I live," murmured Idris, "she has hypnotized Beatrice. She is going to conduct some experiment with the vase."
Having an honourable man's aversion to play the spy he was about to make his presence known, when,suddenly, checked by some motive for which he could not account, he determined to remain an unseen watcher.
Lorelie rose and placed Beatrice's hands upon the vase, where they rested, passive and limp. This movement was accompanied by a shiver on the part of the medium. If the soul be capable of abstraction from the body, Idris might have believed that Beatrice's soul had left her at that moment to animate the vase, for the urn seemed to become instinct with motion, and to sparkle with a new light.
"Speak, Beatrice," said Lorelie in a solemn tone. "Speak from the depth of this vase: listen to the voice of its quivering atoms: recall from it the scenes and sounds of the past.—Tell me, what do you feel—hear—see?"
A hollow voice arose, a voice that sounded like a mockery of Beatrice's tones: and although her lips moved, the words seemed to emanate, not from her, but from the urn.
"It is dark ... very dark ... nothing can be seen.... No sun ... no stars ... no light.... All is cold ... and damp ... and still.... There is no air ... or wind ... no life ... or motion.... It is like the grave.... Above, beneath, on all sides, the earth presses.... Always the earth around ... nothing but earth.... For ages and ages, deep down in the ground."
She repeated this last sentence several times.
"For ages and ages, deep down in the ground."
"What next?" asked Lorelie.
"A sound ... faint ... far-off.... Now it comes nearer ... it is as of a spade digging ... it is coming down ... down ... down.... The earth above loosens ...disappears.... The blowing of fresh air ... the gleam of daylight.... Now the blue sky looks down.... Lifted up by strong hands to the glorious sunshine above.... It is the edge of a pit.... Small pieces of gold mixed with earth lie about.... It is spring-time.... The air is full of the sound of falling waters.... There are green hills around, dark here and there with pines and firs.... Above them snow shining in the sun.... There are men about ... digging ... men with deep blue eyes and flaxen hair.... They wear close-fitting tunics.... Their legs are bare, crossed by thongs of leather, ... They talk a strange language.... Now they stop digging ... laugh ... and drink mead from ox-horns."
Idris started, beginning to detect a glimmer of meaning in these utterances, hitherto as dark as a Delphic oracle.
"It is hot ... very hot.... There is a fire ... flames playing in golden and ruddy hues on the rafters above.... Many pieces of metal are stacked upon the shelves around.... Shields, spears, swords, all newly-wrought, are lying about.... The clangour of the anvil arises.... The red sparks fly around.... Men are moving to and fro, all busy.... One is pouring molten metal into a clay mould.... It is liquid, glowing gold.... He is casting a vase ... a funereal urn ...this!"
Idris had heard something of the marvels of clairvoyance, but clairvoyance like this fairly took his breath away. It was clear that Beatrice was giving the whole history of the vase, from the time when the metal composing it first issued from the earth in the shape of ore in the old Norse fatherland!
"It is a long, low, wooden hall. The lady is beautiful, with dark eyes and raven hair. There are somemaidens around. They are at needlework. They have one long piece of cloth on their knees, and are sewing different coloured threads into it. The lady directs them. Now she moves towards the bed. There is some one lying on it, hidden by a bearskin. At the head is the golden vase. The lady lifts the coverlet. Beneath, there reposes a dead man, with yellow hair and beard. He lies upon his shield, his spear and sword beside him. The lady falls across the body weeping."
This scene was clear enough to Idris' comprehension. The dark-haired lady was the ancestress of Beatrice herself, Hilda the Alruna, mourning the death of her husband, Orm the Viking: and the maidens were the captive nuns who had wrought the figured tapestry that had decorated the interior of Ormfell.
"The maidens tremble as the stern-faced warriors enter the hall to carry away the body of their chief. He is borne aloft to the place of sepulture upon his brazen shield. The lady follows, clasping the urn to her bosom."
Beatrice paused for a moment, and then began another picture.
"The green hill-tomb rises high in sunny air, and close by murmurs the voice of the restless sea. The dead warrior is laid upon an altar of wood. Many persons stand around. A fair-haired boy touches the pile with a flaming torch. As he does so, a shout goes up to the sky."
Though Beatrice's utterances were not marked by any rhythmic measure, she nevertheless began to intone them to an air, which Idris immediately recognized as the Ravengar Funeral March, the requiem that had made so strange an impression upon him when played by Lorelie upon the organ of St. Oswald's Church.
"See the gleam of lifted lance and shield! Hark tothe wailing of the women, as they beat their breasts and rend their tresses for the death of their great chief! List to the warriors, as they clash their brazen bucklers with clanging sword-strokes! Now rises the wild barbaric song of the long-haired scald, hymning to his harp the heroic deeds of the dead, and chanting the dirge that shall never be forgotten by the Raven-race. Upward mount the flames of the pyre. See how the maddened raven, tied to the fagot with silken thread, flaps his wings and screams with terror, pecking at the bond that holds him. The volumed smoke hides him from view: the fire severs the thread: now he soars heavenward, bearing the soul of the warrior to Valhalla. The fire burns long, glowing in the breath of the breeze. Now it fades: glimmers: and dies out. The lady draws near with the urn: within it are reverently placed the ashes of the dead."
Beatrice ceased her intonation, and continued in a quieter tone.
"It is a square place, built of stone. Men are moving about. Some carry torches. Others are decking the walls with tapestry, hanging it from a metal rod. There is a stone receptacle in the centre. The dark-haired lady places the urn within this, and retires. The lights vanish. All is silence and darkness—silence and darkness."
It was clear that Beatrice had been describing the incidents attending the death and burial of Orm. Her account had cleared up one mystery. The contents of the urn were nothing less than the ashes of the old Viking, the ancestral dust from which Beatrice herself had sprung! This completely answered the question as to what had become of his remains, and furnished additional proof that the skeleton in the sarcophagus was not that of Orm.
But here a disquieting thought presented itself. Who had removed this urn from the tomb in Ormfell, and in what way had Lorelie become possessed of it? He dismissed the question for the moment in order to listen to Beatrice who was speaking again.
"Footsteps round about. Light shines through the interstices of the tomb. Some one is speaking. It is the dark-haired lady. There is a man with her. They take off the lid of the tomb and put in all kinds of bright things—coins and rings: gold and silver ingots: cups, lamps, precious stones, and the like. They sparkle in the light. The tomb is full. They lay the rest on the floor. Now they steal away. The light goes with them. Silence and darkness again."
Thus far Beatrice's monologue had dealt with a period of history distant by a thousand years, and had told Idris little that he did not already know. Would she continue the story of the urn through the succeeding centuries? Would she reach modern times, and speak of those who had removed the treasure? would she describe the murder that had taken place, and tell how the urn came to be in Lorelie's possession?
Spellbound he waited for the sequel. If any one had told him that the Viking's treasure was lying upon the roadway outside to be his own for the mere trouble of walking thither, he would not have stirred from his position.
Beatrice had been silent for some time, when Lorelie, speaking in the same tone of authority that she had used throughout, said:—
"What comes next?"
"The dropping of moisture from the roof."
"What next?"
"Silence and darkness."
Idris began to think that he was doomed todisappointment. Each scene described by Beatrice had been followed by an interval, sometimes long, sometimes short, apparently proportionate to the actual length of time that had elapsed between each event. How many minutes were to serve as a measure of the space that separated the age of Orm from the date of the removal of the treasure? Not so many, he trusted, as to cause Lorelie to bring her experiment to a close.
"How much time is passing?"
"Centuries—long centuries—centuries of silence and darkness."
For a long time Beatrice continued to sit without speaking. At length, to Idris' satisfaction, she resumed her monologue.
"A muffled noise like a spade digging. The falling of earth. Some one is going to enter."
"Is this person the first to enter the hillock since the days of the dark-haired lady?"
"The very first.—Cool air blows down the passage, filling the chamber with its freshness. It penetrates the chinks of the tomb."
"Are there several men, or only one?"
"One only."
"What is he doing?"
"He waits a long time at the entrance. Now he comes forward along the passage. He carries a light: it gleams through the interstices of the tomb. He walks about, his feet striking against pieces of metal. He seems to be picking up some. Now, with a cry, he drops them. They ring on the hard earth. There are fresh footsteps coming along the passage. Coming quickly, too!"
Beatrice's voice had lost some of its cold ring: she seemed to be less of an automaton and more of a living woman, capable of being moved by what she saw andheard. Idris did not fail to notice the change. It was an agreeable change, but ominous for his hopes. She seemed to be emerging from her trance: emerging, too, at a very significant point of the story.
He noticed, too, that Lorelie's interest had kept pace with his own: there was on her face a look of painful anxiety that had been entirely absent in the earlier stages of the experiment.
"A second man has entered the place. There is a silence. They seem to be standing still, looking at each other. Now they walk to and fro speaking."
"What do they say?"
"Their voices are hushed! Ha! A sound like the tearing of cloth. The dull thud as of a body falling to the earth. A gasp, and all is still. The footsteps move about again. It seems as if only one man is there. He comes slowly forward and approaches the tomb. He places the light upon the floor. He is going to lift the lid. It is heavy. He can scarcely move it. He pushes it aside with his hands. Ah!" she exclaimed in a tone of disgust, "ah! his fingers are wet with blood. Some drops fall into the tomb. Oh!" she gasped in the voice of one who suddenly realizes an awful truth. "Oh! he is a murderer! He has killed the other. He peers into the tomb. The lamp on the floor lights up his face. I can see the sparkle of his eyes.Oh! it is——"
In sheer horror Beatrice paused as if recognizing the visionary face.
"What! You know him," cried Lorelie, wildly: and to Idris' mind there was as much horror in her voice as in that of Beatrice. "You know him? Who is it?"
Instead of replying Beatrice tried to lift her hands as though their removal from the vase would dissolve theterrible vision. Lorelie came swiftly forward and stayed her action with an imperative gesture.
Much as Idris felt the necessity for intervention, he refrained, for he was as eager for the name as Lorelie herself.
"You recognize him?" cried Lorelie. "Who is it? His name? Who has more right to know it than I? Speak! God of heaven, I'll wrest the name from you, though you were dying—— No! stop! silence!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Do not say the name."
Eager to learn the secret Idris had been incautiously pressing against the silken portière, and even in the midst of her agitation, Lorelie had seen the movement of the curtain.
There was a moment's silence, and then she cried:—
"Who is there?"
"A friend," replied Idris: and seeing that he was discovered he lifted the curtain and entered the recess. "Let us have the name, and then——"
"It was honourable of you to play the spy!" said Lorelie, coldly: and Idris could not help feeling that he deserved the reproach.
"Miss Ravengar," he said, stepping up to Beatrice and taking both her hands in his own: "tell me whose face you see peering into the tomb."
"A face peering into the tomb? I—I don't understand."
Beatrice's voice had assumed its sweet natural ring. From her low seat she looked up at Idris with the light of gladness in her eyes at seeing him, a colour on her cheek at finding her hands clasped in his.
For a moment he eyed her keenly, thinking that in order to shield the guilty person she was going to deny the recognition. Then the truth flashed upon him. She had emerged from her hypnotic trance. On detecting hispresence the viscountess by some quick sleight of hand must have restored her to her normal state of mind.
Beatrice's wondering eyes showed that she was entirely ignorant of the story that had flowed from her lips.
That story had accomplished one good end. She had spoken of the assassin as a man, and a weight was lifted from Idris' mind. Thank heaven, Lorelie was not the author of the deed! But a troubling thought remained. Was she a friend of the assassin, an accessory after the fact? If not, why was she so anxious to conceal his name?
A question or two on the part of Idris elicited the fact that it was Beatrice herself who had suggested the experiment with the vase. Lorelie, who was versed in the art of hypnotism, had readily assented, being as eager as Beatrice to learn its secret.
And now that the experiment was over Beatrice looked from Lorelie to Idris, and from Idris to Lorelie, wondering why each seemed so grave.
"What have I been saying?" she asked.
Lorelie turned to Idris. "How long have you been here?"
"From the beginning of your experiment," he answered.
"Then Beatrice shall learn the story from you."
"But the story lacks completion. You left the experiment unfinished at its most interesting point.—Lady Walden," continued Idris, gravely, "you know now, if you did not know before, that a murder was committed within the interior of Ormfell. Justice requires that the murderer should be punished."
"Go on," she murmured, as he paused.
"That urn," he continued, pointing to the golden vase, "formed a part of the treasure that led to the crime.Whoever gave you the urn was either the assassin, or obtained it through the agency of the assassin."
Idris paused again, and Lorelie herself uttered the question that was in his mind.
"And, therefore, you would learn the name of the giver?"
Idris bowed.
"Mr. Breakspear, you ask too much."
"You desire to shield a murderer?"
"That is nothing new—with me. I have been doing that for many years."
No look could be more mournful than that accompanying her words.
"You will not give me the name that was trembling upon the lips of Miss Ravengar?"
"I did not hear it," replied Lorelie, evasively.
"But you have formed a suspicion?"
"My suspicions might compromise the innocent, even as I myself have been compromised," she added, with a reproachful glance at Beatrice.
"Forgive me," murmured Beatrice, with drooping eyes.
"Are we not all liable to error?" said Lorelie, kissing her tenderly. "I commend your frankness in coming to state your suspicions, painful though it was for me to listen. No; though fallen from what I might be, I have not yet stooped to murder." And then, turning to Idris, she said:—
"If I refuse your request I do so in order that I may not rashly accuse the innocent. When I have verified my suspicions, you shall know the truth: for, if I am not mistaken, no one will have more right to the knowledge than yourself. And then," she added, with a melancholy smile, "then it may be that you will find your desire for justice evaporating."
For more than an hour after the departure of Idris and Beatrice, Lorelie remained where they had left her. She had sunk into a deep reverie, which, judged by the expression of her face, was of a painful character.
"Whence did Ivar obtain that vase?" she murmured. "He has always refused to tell. 'Take it, and ask no questions,' has always been his answer. "'That urn,'" she continued, repeating Idris' words, "'formed a part of the treasure that led to a murder. Whoever gave you the urn was either the assassin, or obtained it through the agency of the assassin.' Ivar gave it to me, but he was not the assassin. No! the deed was wrought by the hand of one who escaped from the wreck of theIdris. Let me read those letters again in the light of the new knowledge acquired to-day."
She rose, and from a drawer in a cabinet took a packet of letters.
"What would Idris Breakspear give to read these!" she murmured. "But the day is not far distant when I must put them into his hands; and then," she faltered, "and then—how great will be his contempt for me!"
Carrying the letters to the table she sat down and untied the thread that bound them.
The first one was written in a woman's hand; and the envelope containing it bore the words, "To my daughter Lorelie."
Madame Rochefort had, when dying, given this letterto Lorelie with the injunction that it was not to be read till after its writer had been laid in the grave.
"Dearest Lorelie," it ran, "it may be that the disclosure contained in this letter will cause you to view the memory of your mother with feelings of shame, if not of contempt: but leave the judgment of my conduct, or, if you should so term it, my sin, to that higher tribunal before which I now stand, and be not too quick to condemn, since no woman can rightly judge me unless she herself has stood in a similar position to mine.
"You will surmise by these words that I have some strange confession to make, and such in truth is the case.
"You, my daughter, in common with the rest of the world, have hitherto regarded Eric Marville as a murderer, and your father, Noel Rochefort, as a man of stainless honour. Learn now the truth that these opinions must be reversed: it was your father, and not Eric Marville, that murdered Henri Duchesne. And for twenty years I have kept this guilty secret locked within my breast, shielding my husband's reputation to the injury of another's.
"Let me tell the tale, and that in as few words as possible, for it is a melancholy reminiscence; why should I linger over it?
"I married your father in 1869.
"During the first year of our wedded life we lived at Nantes, your father's regiment having been stationed there.
"Our circle of friends included, besides others, the Englishman, Eric Marville; and the Gascon, Henri Duchesne. The latter, some years before, had been a suitor for my hand; and to my uneasiness I discovered that though he himself was now married, he had not abandoned his passion for me. I remained deaf to his advances. Thereupon his love turned to hatred, and, desirous of evoking my husband's suspicion and jealousy,he had the baseness to boast among his friends that he had found in me an easy conquest. Though full of secret fury your father hesitated to send a challenge, since Duchesne was deadly with pistol and sword: to face him in duel was to face certain death.
"Your father was a Corsican and took a Corsican's way of avenging himself.
"One memorable summer night I was sitting alone in the upper room of our house, which overlooked the Place Graslin, awaiting the return of your father from the Armorique Club. The hour was late. All was quiet in the square below. I opened the window and looked out upon the moonlit night. A footstep upon the pavement attracted my attention, and stepping forwards I looked downwards over the rail of the veranda. Henri Duchesne was standing below: he looked up, saw me, and kissed his hand. At that moment, from the shadow of the doorway, there leaped a man whose fingers immediately twined themselves around Duchesne's throat. Though taken by surprise he instantly recovered himself, and drew forth a dagger, the recent gift, as I afterwards learned, of Eric Marville.
"I tried to call for help, but found myself dumb with horror. Mutely I leaned against the rail of the veranda watching the silent and savage death-grapple taking place beneath my very feet. The dagger changed hands: a swift stroke, and Duchesne lay stretched upon the pavement.
"The whole affair did not last more than a minute. I recoiled from the veranda, cold and trembling. Though I had not seen his face I knew only too well who it was that had wrought the deed.
"I staggered to a sofa and fainted.
"When I awoke, your father was sitting beside me.
"'It was a dream,' I murmured.
"'It was no dream, Thérèse, but reality, nor do I regret the deed. He sought your dishonour. He deserved to die. It was an act of justice.'
"'Let us fly from Nantes before you are discovered,' I said.
"'Unwise! Stationed here with my regiment, and living close to the scene of the deed, I dare not fly. Suspicion would fall upon me at once.'
"Next day we heard that Eric Marville had been arrested for the murder. 'Have no fear on his account,' said your father to me. 'He did not commit the deed: how, then, can they prove that he did?' The trial drew nigh, and to my dismay I learned that I, as being present in the house at the time of the murder, was cited to give evidence. Your father, anticipating every kind of question that could be put, instructed me what to say, and for many days continued drilling me in the answers I was to give. When the time came for me to take my place in court I stood up and swore an oath—heaven forgive the falsehood!—that I was asleep at the time of the murder, and heard nothing whatever of the scuffle.
"The trial ended: the prisoner was found guilty, and condemned to the guillotine. Never shall I forget Madame Marville's cry of agony when the sentence was pronounced. How often in the dead of night have I started from sleep with that cry ringing in my ears!
"From the tribunal I returned home heart-broken by the black wickedness of which I had been guilty. If Marville died, what was I but his murderess?
"'Noel,' I said, that same night, 'you will not let the innocent suffer?'
"'What would you have me do?' was his reply. 'Walk to the guillotine instead of him? Upon my word, you are an affectionate wife!'
"I shuddered, for he spoke truth. I could prove theinnocence of Eric Marville only at the price of Noel's death.
"Was it for the wife to bring her husband to the guillotine?
"How I preserved my reason at this time I do not know. It came somewhat as a relief to learn that Marville's sentence was changed to imprisonment for life.
"'If you may not prove his innocence,' I said, 'there is one thing you can do for him. Aid him to escape from prison to some far-off land, where he may live in happiness with his wife and child.'
"'Ah! I might do that,' your father replied. The notion seemed to appeal to his spirit of daring and adventure. 'That's a devilish good idea of yours, Thérèse. There would be a dash of excitement in it! Only,' he added, gloomily, stopping in his walk, 'it will mean the utter ruin of my career. It is whispered that the Ministry intend to appoint me to the next Colonial Governorship. I should like to see the fellow free, but his rescue must be left to others. It cannot be done by me. I should have to escape with him, and become exiled from France forever. No! no! it's impossible.'
"But I would not let the idea sleep. I gave him no rest, continually urging him to the work of rescue, even threatening to reveal the truth in connection with the murder, till at last, wearied by my importunities, he matured a plan for Marville's rescue. The result you know. After an imprisonment of five years Eric Marville escaped from Valàgenêt Prison, and was hurried on board the yachtNemesisthat was waiting for him in Quilaix Bay. Your father went with him; as a law-breaker he could not remain in France. I would have accompanied their flight, but the hour of your birth was drawing near. It had been arranged, therefore, that I should join them at a later date. Alas! I never set eyes upon your fatheragain. He corresponded with me at irregular intervals, but after a lapse of eighteen months his letters ceased. The yacht in which he was cruising from place to place foundered off the English coast, and I have no reason to believe that he escaped a watery grave.
"If thus certain of his death, why, you may ask, did I not immediately make known the truth concerning the murder?
"Fear for myself, love for you, were the motives prompting me to concealment.
"I was an accessory after the fact, a perjurer likewise, and therefore amenable to the law. You were a babe of eighteen months, pretty and charming, the light of my life. To proclaim the truth meant imprisonment for me, separation from you; and withal, disgrace upon our common name. I could not bear the thought of this, and, therefore, deaf to the voice of justice, I continued to keep the truth hidden.
"But now, assured by the physician that I have not many days to live, I dare not die without making you the confidante of my guilty secret.
"This letter, signed with my name, together with your father's correspondence, which is contained in my private desk, will afford sufficient evidence of the innocence of Eric Marville.
"To you, then, my daughter, I leave the duty of clearing the memory of an injured man, hoping that you will be brave enough to face the consequent ignominy which must forever rest upon our name.
"Thérèse Rochefort."
Lorelie laid down the letter with a sigh.
"But I was not brave enough," she murmured.
Her father, Noel Rochefort, was credited with having destroyed a brilliant future by his chivalrous enterpriseof rescuing from prison a friend whom he deemed to be innocent: and, as the daughter of such, Lorelie, wherever she went, found herself an object of interest and sympathy, almost a heroine. Must she now proclaim that her father, the supposed hero, was in reality a murderer, and one, too, so base that in order to save his own neck he would have seen an innocent man, and his friend, go to the guillotine?
She was sixteen years of age at the time of her mother's death, and lovely in face and figure; her friends flattered her vanity by averring that with her beauty and accomplishments she might win the love of a nobleman, or even of a prince! But what nobleman or prince would marry the daughter of a felon? Therefore, she resolved to let the truth be hidden. If Eric Marville were still living he was free; let him rejoice in that fact: if dead, her attestation of his innocence would do him no good. True, she knew that Marville had left a son, who must often have felt shame at the stigma resting on his name. But this son would now be twenty-three years of age; he had grown up, she cynically argued, accustomed to the feeling, whereas in her case the knowledge had come upon her with a sudden and overwhelming shock. She pictured the pitying looks of her friends, the gibes of the malicious (for her beauty had made for her many enemies), and she shrank from facing the new situation. No: let the unknown Idris Marville bear the disgrace that of right belonged to her. And when, a month or two later, she learned from the newspapers that this same Idris Marville had perished in a fire at Paris, she felt a sense of relief.
But retribution was to follow!
The day came when her life was in such danger that she must have perished but for the providential help of a certain stranger; and when that stranger proved to benone other than the Idris Marville whom she was wronging by her guilty silence, her feeling of remorse was so great that she was almost tempted to leap from the rock into the sea. To withhold the truth was pain, yet to declare it would be to earn Idris' contempt. Every kindly word, every pleasant look on his part, had gone to her heart like so many thrusts of steel.
The irony of fate! She had married Viscount Walden in the expectation of succeeding to a coronet, and now the belief was gradually forming in her mind that Idris was the rightful heir of Ravenhall: Beatrice Ravengar, and not herself, was destined to be the Countess of Ormsby.
O, if at the age of sixteen, and following the dictates of justice, she had tried to find Idris Marville, and finding, had given him her mother's written confession, how different her life might have been! Idris would perhaps have been attracted by her then as he had been seven years later. But now? She was united to a husband whom she felt to be worthless: a husband who had ceased to care for her: a husband whose title of right belonged to Idris.
"I am justly punished," she murmured, bitterly.
The remaining contents of the packet drawn by Lorelie from the escritoire consisted of the correspondence mentioned by Madame Rochefort in her inculpatory letter.
Arranging these missives according to the order of time in which they were written Lorelie took up the first, which dealt with the events that followed upon the flight from Quilaix.
"The Pelayo Hotel, Pajares.25th April, 1875."The newspapers will already have told you howadmirably the rescue was planned and carried out, so I need not dwell upon that point."There was, however, one awkward hitch in the arrangement—the death of Mrs. Marville: but I am not to blame forthat. Had Eric listened to me it would not have happened; my intention was to proceed direct to the yacht: he would turn aside to take his wife with him: now he has no wife."Eric Marville is free, and I hope you are satisfied."The superscription of this letter will show you that we are no longer on board theNemesis."'What is Pajares?' you may ask. A mere hamlet on the northern slope of the Asturian Sierras, so high up as to be almost in the clouds: and the building dignified with the name of hotel is but a miserable logposada."How we come to be here is soon told."To fly from Quilaix to the open sea was an easy task: the difficulty was to attain dry land again in safety; for, as our romantic escapade would form the chief topic in all the newspapers, it was pretty certain that at every port a watch would be kept for our yacht. We feared putting into harbour. But land we must—somewhere. We could not cruise forever on the open main. How to land without detection was the problem."Chance decided our course of action. We lay becalmed in a wild rocky bay off the Asturian coast. Anchoring a mile from land we swept the shore with the glass: there was neither village nor human dwelling visible, not a living creature in sight. It was the very spot for our purpose; and, as if to favour us still more, a mist came on. Marville proposed that we should go ashore in the boat, and get rid of the tell-tale yacht by scuttling it there and then. I was compelled to agree to this plan, for I could devise none better. It went to my heart towatch the beautifulNemesissinking out of sight forever, but it would have gone to my heart still more to be captured by a French cruiser, and provided with a cell at Valàgenêt."Fortunately, the sea was as smooth as glass and the wind still as we rowed off, otherwise enveloped in a fog on an ironbound coast we might have fared ill. We ran the boat ashore in safety, destroyed it immediately afterwards, and paid off our crew, who were as glad as ourselves to be quit of the yacht, for they, too, as fellow-conspirators in the rescue-plot, were amenable to justice."We dispersed: and since the crew went eastward, Marville and I turned our faces westward, and walking all night as chance directed, found ourselves at early dawn at Gijon, where we rested. We assumed the character of pedestrian tourists. From Gijon we moved on to Oviedo, and thence to the mountain-hamlet of Pajares, where I write this."I have found Marville far from being a pleasant companion: the death of his wife has gloomed his spirits, and has poisoned the pleasure he might otherwise derive from his newly-acquired freedom."His talk, on the few occasions when hedoestalk, turns mainly upon that accident, and upon the look of horror which his boy gave him. 'He will never want to see me again,' he mutters moodily."I was not sorry when he proposed that we should part. He saw that his gloom was an ill-match for my cheerful nature. With his love of mountaineering he resolved to cross the sierras, and to penetrate into Leon. He set off without a guide. From the door of theposadaI watched him ascending the mountain-path, his solitary black form outlined against the white snow. He dwindled to a speck, and that was the last I saw of him. Shall we ever see each other again? He forgot to makearrangements for a future meeting, and I didn't remind him of the point."He has done me irreparable injury. For him I have wrecked a brilliant military career, lost a Colonial Governorship, and made myself an exile forever fromla belle France. Why should I confess the deed to him? Haven't I made the fellow sufficient atonement?"
"The Pelayo Hotel, Pajares.25th April, 1875.
"The newspapers will already have told you howadmirably the rescue was planned and carried out, so I need not dwell upon that point.
"There was, however, one awkward hitch in the arrangement—the death of Mrs. Marville: but I am not to blame forthat. Had Eric listened to me it would not have happened; my intention was to proceed direct to the yacht: he would turn aside to take his wife with him: now he has no wife.
"Eric Marville is free, and I hope you are satisfied.
"The superscription of this letter will show you that we are no longer on board theNemesis.
"'What is Pajares?' you may ask. A mere hamlet on the northern slope of the Asturian Sierras, so high up as to be almost in the clouds: and the building dignified with the name of hotel is but a miserable logposada.
"How we come to be here is soon told.
"To fly from Quilaix to the open sea was an easy task: the difficulty was to attain dry land again in safety; for, as our romantic escapade would form the chief topic in all the newspapers, it was pretty certain that at every port a watch would be kept for our yacht. We feared putting into harbour. But land we must—somewhere. We could not cruise forever on the open main. How to land without detection was the problem.
"Chance decided our course of action. We lay becalmed in a wild rocky bay off the Asturian coast. Anchoring a mile from land we swept the shore with the glass: there was neither village nor human dwelling visible, not a living creature in sight. It was the very spot for our purpose; and, as if to favour us still more, a mist came on. Marville proposed that we should go ashore in the boat, and get rid of the tell-tale yacht by scuttling it there and then. I was compelled to agree to this plan, for I could devise none better. It went to my heart towatch the beautifulNemesissinking out of sight forever, but it would have gone to my heart still more to be captured by a French cruiser, and provided with a cell at Valàgenêt.
"Fortunately, the sea was as smooth as glass and the wind still as we rowed off, otherwise enveloped in a fog on an ironbound coast we might have fared ill. We ran the boat ashore in safety, destroyed it immediately afterwards, and paid off our crew, who were as glad as ourselves to be quit of the yacht, for they, too, as fellow-conspirators in the rescue-plot, were amenable to justice.
"We dispersed: and since the crew went eastward, Marville and I turned our faces westward, and walking all night as chance directed, found ourselves at early dawn at Gijon, where we rested. We assumed the character of pedestrian tourists. From Gijon we moved on to Oviedo, and thence to the mountain-hamlet of Pajares, where I write this.
"I have found Marville far from being a pleasant companion: the death of his wife has gloomed his spirits, and has poisoned the pleasure he might otherwise derive from his newly-acquired freedom.
"His talk, on the few occasions when hedoestalk, turns mainly upon that accident, and upon the look of horror which his boy gave him. 'He will never want to see me again,' he mutters moodily.
"I was not sorry when he proposed that we should part. He saw that his gloom was an ill-match for my cheerful nature. With his love of mountaineering he resolved to cross the sierras, and to penetrate into Leon. He set off without a guide. From the door of theposadaI watched him ascending the mountain-path, his solitary black form outlined against the white snow. He dwindled to a speck, and that was the last I saw of him. Shall we ever see each other again? He forgot to makearrangements for a future meeting, and I didn't remind him of the point.
"He has done me irreparable injury. For him I have wrecked a brilliant military career, lost a Colonial Governorship, and made myself an exile forever fromla belle France. Why should I confess the deed to him? Haven't I made the fellow sufficient atonement?"